essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
I remember the shape of the word rainbow
on her puckered mouth, how we sounded
it out from my bedroom window.
How did a barrel-chested man learn
this magic? Softened like golden butter
in a dizzy aftermath, he did too many wars perhaps.
We are three siblings, scattered across continents, each of us carrying the taste of a different kitchen.
Rain upon me your turbulent tales of locker-side loves,
the gossip of girls whose braces still encase their molars
I look at a photo of my Hungarian grandfather and his compatriots in Carr Bank Park, posing by the flowerbeds on Woodhouse Road, and know it is possible to belong to more than a single place.
Just as Hemlock
digs its graves in the
carrot family plot
because there’s no way he would ever find it,
being interested only in dinner/work/breakfast
/work/sex on demand/sleep/work.
the problem with mici is
they’re all so good
that they don’t even ask you
what you’re ordering
So next time you feel so anxious that you can hardly unlock the door,
remember that the world holds your feet
First day of the World Series,
autumn hanging on, each tree
seeing who can keep from
being a skeleton the longest
I see you standing there – starch white lungi draped
7AM freshly shaved – wooden spoon in hand
Commanding your caramelising populace.
one bright red strawberry on the strawberry plant
mist still low, tangled in the branches of olive trees
the way the pomegranates hang low
with the burden of their own weight
On a sunny September day in the early 1990s, a German couple taking a shortcut through the rock spires on the Austrian-Italian border spotted the head and back of a man jutting from a patch of half-melted ice. The couple, thinking they’d stumbled across the corpse of a mountaineer, told the owner of the inn they were staying at. He, in turn, contacted the authorities, who sent a forensic investigator.
You’ve probably never noticed them. Their red and white box usually sits well below their thick-cut, smoked, and maple-flavored cousins in their clear ‘look at me!’ packaging. Or, sometimes, Ends and Pieces aren’t displayed at all, and you have to ask the butcher for them. Because mind you, they are the ends and pieces, the leftovers, the scraps. Who would want them?
My mom, that’s who.
How she longs for the asteroid to come, to show them how little they controlled anything.
Reuniting with translator Polly Barton, Matsuda revisits similar themes in this new collection; across fifty-two stories, she tackles the pervasive misogyny faced by women in contemporary Japan and beyond.
“We are prompted to savour each word, carefully probing between our teeth to discover new morsels of meaning.”
That albino slug
looks like mobile marzipan,
bending its neck for a nap
in the stitchwort
tufted beside the road.
You slid the nit comb through my hair
then rinsed and laughed about how
you loved hunting them down
legs floating, brush of seaweed
bulging water moves us
up and down
the shore seems very far away
I wanted to be a part of their club, their conversations, their laughter. Eating, I decided, was my way in.
Stevie busies himself trying to match two blue pieces of sky. You watch him working the corners and the glands in your throat swell.
If you walk along a path
between forest and shore
between grains eroded by the sea
they were mountains once
I found that writing and art keep me sane, they’re like a room of my own in a time when I’m rarely alone.
Am I livestock or the boning knife?
Amongst the timid lambs, half-dreaming
Inside the atoms of the cavity block extension live the remnants of a thousand John Players.
They say a lot of the work of being poly is scheduling. When I say ‘they’ I mean smug influencers with poorly produced podcasts, and when I say ‘being poly’ I hate myself.
My family observes the emu cage. Beaks so vengeful, I realise we’re taking the piss.
I first saw her walking,
the folds of her ink blue dress
turning the earth;
But from time to time it does exist. Something like a stray lash under the eyelid
trying to catch its last breath.
at least the colour I’m told is
robin’s egg blue, like
boy-baby blankets, like
deep breaths of sunshine.
It’s these questions I have. (An astral whodunnit: a whydreamit).
They’re small animals
wriggling to get out
Just let us touch the crust, they say
feel it crackle
I know it’s over when I picture the train carriage
it’s an old-fashioned carriage with burgundy velvet seats
a little room in my memory.
You are sun-skinned, but my half
of the planet is tumbling into the dark.
Family is my way of honouring the Filipino spirit, where the bond of unity, the guidance of elders, and the hope carried by the younger generation come together to form a love that is simple, yet profound—one that transcends individuality and connects us all.
It is an old superstition.
The mirror, and the room
dark behind it but for the
flickering of a few fading
candles.
My memories can be quantified in cups of tea,
and meat pies filled perfectly, slumped against
a mountain of mash
Like thirst – a need to quench, slake, state:
first hearse, first coffin and pallbearing.
I become great at darts, a phenomenon
on dart circuits, earning enough from darts
to pay for lobster rolls
maybe they look down
at their bodies as they left them
in neat rows, heads of wheat
crackling green and gold
She arms herself with the metal pipe of the Electrolux
with the precision of a marksman
(coffee, pastry,
food-words,
unfettered time)
Words words words black as a cat.
I just saw you in the periphery of
Manet’s Olympia — or maybe Cézanne’s
…across the bitter world, a sweet gift from Pachamama
like my father who taught me to feel
and press its skin: a map of lost worlds
Porridge 